


repetition is the key

by umarthiels



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26135908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umarthiels/pseuds/umarthiels
Summary: or, five times Beleg kissed Túrin and one time Túrin kissed him.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion/Túrin Turambar
Comments: 17
Kudos: 34





	repetition is the key

i. dimbar

Túrin shivered and huddled in closer, Beleg throwing his cloak around the both of them. They had been trapped hiding inside a small cave in Dimbar, the Orc-camp they were planning to attack alerted to them. The snow was still falling, at least, and would cover their tracks. Something unspoken lay in the air between them.

Beleg broke the silence. “The Orcs will probably stop looking for us come dawn.” he murmured in Taliska. ”Túrin, we’ll be fine.”

Túrin couldn’t bear to look Beleg in the eyes, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the stone floor. He was trying to steel himself for something, but what it was, Beleg didn’t know. Túrin, so steadfast in battle, always the first to fight and last to run, one of the most direct people Beleg knew. Beleg could tell this wasn’t about the Orcs. Túrin always spoke his mind, and yet here he was, something weighing him down, keeping him silent. 

“I love you.”

Túrin continued, his voice trembling, whether it was with nerves or with cold.

“I know I’m, I’m not worth your love, or, or even your friendship after this, and you can stop liking me, forget about me, remember me only as the foolish mortal boy who fell in love with Beleg Cuthalion, captain of Doriath. I— I just thought you should know.” Túrin’s voice was thick with emotion as he stammered through the words. He had turned so that his long hair fell as a dark curtain about his face, and had moved away. 

“Come closer, _melethron_. It’s cold.”

Túrin, a little apprehensive, got nearer. Beleg continued, his words getting more and more certain as he went on. 

“Túrin, dearest, where did you get the idea I didn’t love you too? Even if I didn’t, why would I hate you?” Beleg continued, his words getting more and more certain as he went on. “Just because the Eldar do not announce every romance doesn’t mean we don’t have them, and so what if you are Adan and I Edhel? A Man too was Beren your kinsman, and he was not any less for it.”

“Ai, but Beleg, dearest of friends, I am no Beren.” Túrin remarked, not without a hint of bitterness. “Such was the Queen’s word, and I fear that she is right. I cannot bring you a Silmaril as dowry, or have an Elvenking in my debt…” Beleg cut him off with a soft kiss.

“You are no Beren, you say, and neither am I a Lúthien. I cannot dance, or weave, or sing Mandos the Inexorable into clemency, but we can make this work. What of Aegnor Fell-fire and Andreth Saelind?”

“Aegnor died in battle, and Andreth mourned all her life.” Túrin answered darkly, but his frown was replaced by the slightest hint of a smile. “But you are no Aegnor either, or I an Andreth. We can make this work.”

Beleg smiled in answer, and they shared silence as they watched the sun rise. 

ii. the north-marches

The fire crackled in the cabin, and the kettle on the hob boiled. Outside, the snow was heavy, and inside, Túrin was alone. He sat next to the fire, bent over repairing a pair of bracers. More than once, his eyes wandered to the frosted-over windows.

Finally, a knock on the door. Hastening, Túrin opened it, bidding Beleg enter, taking his heavy cloak. The door shut, the bracers were left on the table, and Beleg sat down, unlacing his boots. 

Túrin spoke. “You’re not the only one allowed to bring tidings to Mablung, you know? Any news?”

Beleg shrugged. “None. The watch has been peaceful on the marches, even in Nan Dungortheb. No orders from Menegroth. No tidings from Dor-lomin either, but you knew that.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “And you also know I couldn’t let you go! With the weather how it is, you’d catch your death—”

“ _Don’t_ talk about that.” interrupted Túrin, his voice suddenly loud. The kettle whistled. Pouring the hot tea into mugs, he handed one to Beleg, who looked concerned. They sat on the floor, warming themselves by the fire.

They drank in silence.

“Are you okay, Túrin?” came Beleg’s uneasy voice. Túrin cursed and took a long sip of tea to avoid answering. The anxiety in Beleg’s eyes made him cave.

“I’m fine, _melethron_. It’s just… this was how Urwen died.” and Beleg’s heart dropped. How could he have forgotten? Túrin continued. “We had stayed outside all day. Only old Sirwen had gotten the Evil Breath, and we didn’t think anything would happen. Two days later Urwen was sick, badly, and then it came for me too. I— I don’t remember much after that… only waking up, and asking mother where Urwen was, and that was when I found out.”

“Túrin…”

“It started with a cough. I know you’re an Elf and don’t experience sickness the way we do, but there were rumours that the Elves passing through were poisoned too, and you aren’t immune to poison. I will be fine, if it ever comes back to haunt us, but if the Enemy has found some foul way of poisoning even the Eldar…” Túrin trailed off. Strangely, Beleg had smiled. 

“Melethron, I will be fine. Not even the spiders of Nan Dungortheb killed me, and I doubt that even the Enemy has power enough to undo my nature.” he answered, ever so gently pressing a kiss to Túrin’s cheek. “You have much more to worry about than me falling ill.”

Beet-red, Túrin moved closer, and he smiled his rare smile that never failed to take Beleg’s breath away. “You wouldn’t know how to mend these bracers, would you?”

  
  


iii. a camp of the gaurwaith

Beleg was starving, and his body ached, and tied to that tree he could only flinch as Ulrad brought the red-hot brand near his face. He knew one thing, the thought echoing in his mind. 

_I am going to die._

He ignored the traitorous voice in his head telling him to wait. He had done his waiting and Túrin had not come.

He had never been very patient.

He had resigned himself to it when he heard a familiar voice. Struggling to open his leaden eyes, he notices first that Ulrad had dropped the brand. Then he sees Túrin, his dearest Túrin, in unjust exile from Doriath, and their eyes met. 

Túrin rushed to the tree, his eyes burning with tears. Taking out a knife, he cut through the ropes binding Beleg to the tree, and Beleg fell, loose-limbed and exhausted, into Túrin’s arms, pulling him down for a kiss before he sank into restful oblivion. 

He drifted in and out of consciousness, and whenever he was awake Túrin was beside him, holding a waterskin and bidding Beleg drink. He wouldn’t remember much of this night, his memory patchy, only nodding along whenever someone would mention it. 

When he woke up for good, he had been lain on a bedroll, his head propped up by a folded blanket. His head pounded, and he tried to sit up, wincing at how sore he was. He didn’t succeed, falling back onto the bedroll with a painful thump. He wasn’t wearing his boots, and every movement stung, the coarse fabric of his shirt rubbing the rope burn on his ribs raw. He tried again, and succeeded in sitting up against the cool stone. Looking around, he found his pack next to him, and then he saw Túrin, asleep against the stone wall. _He must’ve stayed up all night_ , Beleg thought. He grabbed his pack and rummaged around for his waybread. 

There would be time enough to talk when they were both awake.

iv. echad i sedryn

They were sitting on the summit of Amon Rûdh, on the pretense of taking watch. The emergence of Dor Cúarthol had led to them being busy, but it had also let new people in to help in the fight against Morgoth. Only the original members of the Gaurwaith had stayed, though, and they had both relieved the watchman of her duty, saying they had something they needed to check for.

It felt nice, sitting atop the flat top of the mountain. The wind rustled gently, and they talked freely for the first time in a while. It was _peaceful,_ in a way that tugged at Túrin’s heartstrings, in a way that made Beleg’s chest feel like crystallised amber, everything illuminated in clear golden light.

“There’s been something I wanted to talk about, _melethron_...” Túrin froze, not daring to look at him, and Beleg cringed at himself. He had never been good at starting these kinds of conversations. “Don’t worry, it’s not us. It’s just... our victories seemed so easy, recently. The Orcs aren’t the best at strategy, but they aren’t _that_ bad. There’s something they’re planning, Túrin, I am sure of it.”

Túrin seemed to sag with relief, but straightened up again. 

“We’ve been better organised, better supplied, these past few years, more people have joined us. Though they do seem to be fleeing more often than not, isn’t this our goal? Is not the wrath of the Black Hand our delight? Isn’t this going _well_ , Beleg?”

“Amon Rûdh, it is a good watchtower, a good place for a small group spying on the Enemy but it is easily surrounded. It cannot possibly be self-sufficient if the Enemy chose to lay siege seriously, _melethron_ , you know this! The hand is scorched, but it has withdrawn, and it could crush us if it so chooses.”

“ _Uivelethron_ , what would you have me do? These people have a cause now, we’re fighting against him! I cannot take that away from them.” Túrin paused, the fire in his voice burning itself to embers. “Here, I stand in the path of Morgoth. If I fall, then I fall.”

The last few words probably would’ve turned into a glorious speech, like in stories and songs, rallying an army to a last stand, and Beleg would not have doubted it. It was different now. Túrin spoke, grim and resigned, as if he knew he would be dead in a few years. As if he didn’t care. The thought alone made Beleg ache; Túrin had often made such remarks on the marches, and they had dismissed it as a Mannish idiosyncrasy, but surrounded by other Men who lived their lives full of mirth and cheer and song, he seemed almost fatalistic in comparison, a dead man walking among the living. Sensing Beleg’s discomfort, Túrin continued, his voice more certain.

”It is their choice whether to stay or go. If we fall, I would have us make an end worthy of glory, taking as many of Morgoth’s servants with us. While we stand, he cannot use the southward road. Even— even if it’s only for a few years.”

Beleg felt himself smile despite himself. “Your hope is admirable, _meluiron_. Would that we all had such hope.”

“The history of my people is the history of sacrifice, _melethron_ . A few years is nothing to you, but it could mean everything to us. We have nothing but our hope. _Amdir_ it may be, and not _estel_ , but _estel_ I believe it to be. We have nothing but our hope, in Eru and in ourselves, and I have faith in our iron and in our blood.” Túrin sighed, the sound low. He sounded tired. ”So long as you stay by my side, I am content.”

Beleg kissed him, and they talked of more merry things the rest of the day. They sat together and watched the sun set, and as Túrin watched the gold of the sky glint in Beleg’s truesilver hair, he thought that everything would have been worth it for this moment to have existed.

  
v. bar-en-danwedh

Beleg had known the wrath of Angband had come from the first sound of the orc-horns. He hadn’t expected such a large force. The clouds were thick and dark over the host, and he knew there was no way they were all coming out of this alive. Túrin had joined him on the watch, and both of them knew this would be the end for Dor Cúarthol. 

“So this is it.” said Túrin, and his voice was full of grim determination. He turned to Beleg, and smiled a strained smile. “You were right, as always. Let’s hope I was right too.” He was holding the Dragon-helm, and Beleg felt a pang at how resigned he seemed. Softly kissing him, Beleg answered.

“Let’s hope, _uivelethron_.”

The fighting was fierce, the orcs overrunning the entrance to Bar-en-Danwedh quickly. There were too many. The air was thick with screams and the sounds of steel against steel. One moment. Two. Beleg found himself running out of arrows. No matter, the orcs were getting too close for archery. 

They had been driven back behind the halls, the Men who took the outward stairs dead, and there were so few of them left. Androg told them about the secret stair. By the time they had reached Amon Rûdh’s summit only twelve of them were left. 

Eleven. Túrin was fighting as one possessed, the battle-madness raging in his eyes. Beleg’s black blade dripped with blood. There were so few of them left.

Ten. There were so many of them. _I always thought that my defeat would be glorious,_ he thinks. He had survived an Age, countless battles, the Nirnaeth, but he was sure now. This, most likely, was where he would fall. 

Nine. Eight. Seven. The orcs on the summit outnumbered them three-to-one at least, not counting the other ones scrambling up the stairs. Love against wisdom, he had said. Love against wisdom. Beleg had always been skilled, but he had never been wise, not in the way Melian or Mablung were. He pushed the thoughts from his mind and focused on fighting. At least Túrin still lived, he thought. At least he had that.

Six. Five. Four. Three. _Ai, Nínuirîs Gurtheruin,_ he mumbled, the old hymn to the Lady of Mourning eclipsing the words to the Lord of Death on his tongue. He felt something sharp against his chest and for a moment the world stilled— 

Two. The sharp things were chains, and he hopelessly flailed against them as he was pulled away from the fray. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Túrin in much the same predicament. 

One. The orcs started to hammer the chains binding him into pins in the rock, and he could only watch helplessly as Túrin was dragged away. _Ai, Nínuirîs Gurtheruin, palan-díriel, i istannai... Fanuilos, le linnathon, nif aear, si nif aearon…_

Beleg knew. He would save Túrin if it was the last thing he did.

\+ i. taur-nu-fuin

The elf lay cold on the bloodstained leaves, eyes closed as if in peaceful sleep. 

The blood told a different story. 

A pale man with long dark hair bent to kiss the cold lips, and tasted blood on blood, iron on iron. His eyes were dark and unseeing. His bruised and bleeding hands groped in the dark for the black sword that killed its master, begging it for relief that never came.

_“I abide by Beleg, bid me not leave him! Vain is everything. O Dark-handed Death, merciful Mandos, draw me to you, if remorse can move you. Crush me conquered to his cold bosom!”_

The other elf, watching, turned, hid the sword in a hollow. The man did not weep. He spoke again. 

_“If death comes not to the death-craving, I shall seek him by the sword! Where is it? Where does it lie, cold and cruel, murderer of its master? Make amends, accursed blade, and slay me swiftly, sleep-giver.”_

He searched for the sword; searched for the chance to meet _him_ again. He searched in vain. 

He knew of the tale of Beren and Lúthien; of two lovers sundered by fate happily reunited in the afterlife. He knew he was a kinsman of Beren. He did not know this: that stories like his rarely had happy endings.

It would be a long time yet before Túrin Turambar would die.

**Author's Note:**

> melethron - lover (m)  
> uivelethron - eternal love/eternal lover (m)  
> meluiron - honey-sweet person (m)  
> -*-  
> the cool thing about that -ron suffix in melethron, uivelethron, etc, is that it's an agental suffix, but it's also used to indicate a male person? it's kinda hard to explain, but using that suffix 1. indicates a doriathrin accent and 2. indicates that the person being called "___-ron" is male, which is something i Will take advantage of in my other fics! >:)
> 
> i really enjoyed writing this! kudos and comments are very appreciated! :D


End file.
